Seven Days of Sweetness
by BluSakura
Summary: Seven pieces dedicated to Fakir and Ahiru. For Fakiru Week, 2015. "… A few years back, I met this beautiful girl by a lake."
1. Day 1: Violet

_Fakiru Week 2015  
Violet_

* * *

"Where do you find such inspiration?"

* * *

"… A few years back, I met this beautiful girl by a lake.

"She sat on a tire swing and spun around with her legs splayed out and her head thrown back. The sun was setting. Ribbons of pinks and purples bounced off orange-red hair and blue eyes. She wore a violet dress, and walked on the grass with bare feet, kicking at the water and disturbing the calm with her toes. She almost fell backward right off the swing at one point, but she righted herself and laughed.

"Her laughter danced and bounded across the fields, the tree's branches rustling with its music and the wind carrying her voice to my ears.

"She might as well have been a dream.

* * *

"My hometown was a small one—the kind where gossip traveled like wildfire and everyone knew each other's birthdays. When her family moved in, the town welcomed them with stifling warmth. They were greeted with enough green bean casseroles and bread puddings to last them years, I think.

"I ignored most of the excitement. My head was elsewhere. My studies, my writing. I didn't care about the mundane doldrums of a small town like that.

"My parents encouraged me to at least attend the block party held in honor of the newcomers. So I went, and I kept to myself. No one in that town liked me, and that was fine by me.

"I saw her again, though. She had violets in her hair.

"She danced with the other girls in the center of the party. With an awful sense of rhythm and laughable clumsiness, it was a wonder she could keep up with the rest of them.

"But, God, I couldn't take my eyes off her.

* * *

"It didn't take long for me to figure out that the lake was her favorite spot.

"It was mine, too. Sitting at the base of that oak helped clear my mind. I'd spend hours with a pen in my hand and a notebook in my lap, tossing breadcrumbs to the ducks as they passed.

"I was looking down at my half-empty page one day, feeling stuck. I had no direction, and what I'd written so far was as forced and shallow as stories came.

"Then, violet slippers stepped into view, shifting the grass. I looked up.

"She was smiling, her freckled nose crinkling. I remember the sudden flutter in my stomach and the strange heat of anxiety in my chest.

"Maybe it was because I wasn't used to someone like her. Or maybe it was because she was so darn pretty just then.

"She sat on the tire swing like she had when I first came upon her, and she asked what I was writing. As she spun, I, once again, wondered if I just dreamed her to life.

"… That must sound pretty stupid.

"Point is, after meeting her, writing became easy. Like breathing.

* * *

"But nothing came easier to me than loving her.

* * *

"God, there were just— _so_ many things … I can't even begin to …

"… Like the way she loved bread. _Bread._ She didn't care if it had cheese, or meat, or fruit in the middle. Sometimes, she'd just buy a loaf and bite right into it, like it was the tastiest snack in the world.

"She scraped her knees so many times, and had a fondness for climbing trees.

"She was so … short. She didn't even come up to my shoulder. I'd ruffle her messy, red hair and she'd give me this pout that—

"—I bent forward pretty far just to kiss her. She smelled like strawberries and violets.

* * *

"… Her parents passed away.

"Her only family left was her aunt. She lived far—across the country, I think. The details are a little fuzzy to me now.

"Not that I was particularly paying attention. The only thing I knew was that she was leaving.

"… I _should've_ paid attention. I should've written her every day. I should've been there for her every step, and I should've— _God_ , I should've _tried_. She was mourning, for crying out loud, and I still—

"—When she showed up at our oak by the lake to say goodbye, she was crying and grabbing at my chest. I knew she needed me. But, like an idiot, I told her …

"I told her that … it was fine. I told her that we were just kids. That life went on and she would find someone else in due time. Her aunt would take care of her and she would be … okay.

"It was easier, trying to be strong, than facing the fact that I'd be losing her. That'd I'd fallen so hard, and I loved her so much that I couldn't even stand it. I couldn't make this about me. I couldn't—

"I hid my feelings, to protect myself in some pathetic, twisted way of trying to 'be strong' for her.

"I was a coward and she deserved a hell of a lot better than anything I could give her.

* * *

"The next morning, I ran to her house with a bouquet of violets, intent on telling her the truth, and to hell with my fears and insecurities and whatever the hell could stop us from being together even if we … weren't together. She needed to know how I felt. Maybe it would've helped—maybe my feelings could've given her something to be happy about. They could've reached her. Even if we were far away, if we had just tried, if I'd insisted that we'd try to give it a shot–

"But she'd already left.

* * *

"… Sometimes, I wonder what could've been, had I asked her what she wanted.

* * *

"If I could, I'd have stayed by her side forever.

* * *

"… Why the hell am I still talking about all this?

* * *

"… Forget it. This is stupid.

"I shouldn't have—"

* * *

The interviewer is speechless at first, before swallowing and wiping the tear from his eyes. He thanks the writer profusely for his honesty and his rare display of openness, before moving on to a far less personal topic for the sake of his comfort.

For the rest of the interview, however, Fakir Blackwell, best-selling author and extremely private person, remains stoic, and keeps his answers short and curt, as if to make up for his obscene talkativeness earlier.

He returns to home that night and clutches his head, cursing himself.

* * *

A month of so after the interview is published, there's a book-signing in which Fakir spends none of it conversing with enthusiastic fans. He opens up the next book to the front page mechanically. "Who should I sign this to," he mumbles.

"Um …! A-Ahiru, please?"

He drops his pen and glances up, his heart stopping in his chest, and he feels it the moment he looks at her—the painful clench of his chest and the sudden sensation that makes him think _he must be dreaming of her all over again_. His vision is blurring and he might just damn well cry.

She's already beaten him to it, though, and she's smiling through her blubbering. He doesn't know what she's trying to say beyond her sobs, and somehow, it doesn't even matter.

She's older, but he recognizes her anywhere—from the brightness in her tearful blue eyes, to those freckles and bright red hair, to the way she fits into his arms and has to lift up to her toes to kiss him. There's that familiar taste of strawberries, and that sweet scent of violets.

No one bothers to question why he leaves with her halfway through the book-signing.


	2. Day 2: Accident

_Fakiru Week 2015  
Accident  
Anastasia AU  
_" _At the Beginning" by Richard Marx, feat. Donna Lewis_

* * *

 _no one told me i was going to find you  
unexpected, what you did to my heart_

* * *

The gowns and dresses twirl across the ballroom like shimmering bells. Princess Tutu always thinks that the people are so pretty while they dance, and maybe she'll learn to be somewhat as elegant. Someday.

But she doesn't really pay that much attention tonight. Not when Grandmama is visiting all the way from Kinkan Kingdom.

Goldkrone Castle is a sight to behold, a ball held in honor of Queen Edel's visit to her son, her daughter-in-law, and her grandchildren.

Amidst the celebrations, Grandmama sits Tutu upon her lap and offers her a tiny, wind-up music box. Inside, a porcelain ballerina spins en pointe with the simple tune, and the key is a little, red pendant with the words "Together in Kinkan" inscribed along the edges. The pendant is placed around Tutu's neck.

Tutu throws her arms around Grandmama and laughs, promising that she won't drop any her gifts on accident this time.

* * *

Fakir isn't one for parties, but he's a curious sort of boy. The music, the dancing—it's a world that's vast and unfamiliar.

And the princess is just as unreachable as everything else. He sees her every so often when she sneaks into the kitchen for bread or accidentally spills the pot of fresh soup for the evening. She's precocious and fiery, yet sweet-natured and giving. Trouble seems to follow her wherever she goes, but he thinks she has more personality than all her other siblings combined.

He watches from afar, knowing her without knowing her at all.

* * *

Neither the child-princess nor the kitchen boy understand why Goldkrone Castle is suddenly and violently under attack by vengeful Crows. Neither know of the curse upon her family, or of a dark, sinister sorcerer who had given up his soul and his hands in the name of revenge.

Perhaps it's by accident that Tutu leaves behind that precious ballerina music box in her bedroom. Perhaps it's all by chance that she and Grandmama are met in her chamber by a young, dark-haired servant boy.

He opens the passageway through the servants' quarters, and pushes the princess and her grandmother through the doorway.

She drops her music box. He shuts the door with finality.

The boy faces the Crows head-on, even as their swords slash across his small torso.

* * *

The rest is a blur. A cold, snowy blur. There is a man without hands who falls through the ice, Grandmama calling out to her and pulling her through the crowd, and a train that is simply too fast for her tiny legs.

Tutu's hand slips from the Queen's, and she falls and hits her head.

* * *

Ten thousand gold pieces is all too delicious of an offer for Fakir to pass up.

He sweeps into his home in Old Goldcrone, the echo of the gossip that the Herald spreads through town following him inside. "Mytho. I take it you've heard the news," he says with a devilish smirk, hanging his cloak by the door.

Mytho leans back in his seat on the overstuffed chair. "Of the rumored surviving princess? Who hasn't?"

"And you've heard the best part?"

"If you're talking about the reward—"

"Ten _thousand_ gold pieces, Mytho."

"—If she's alive."

" _If_ ," Fakir corrects, "she's _found_."

Mytho's eyebrow arches.

It will be simple. It must be the right woman—the best to play the part. With the look, the charm, and the wit, and with Mytho's knowledge of nobility and Fakir's connections, how can they lose?

They'll be _rich_.

* * *

"Together in Kinkan …" It's the only clue Ahiru has, now that she has to leave the orphanage.

She stares down at the pendant around her neck. She stands at the fork in the road. East: the shoe factory, where she will work as a cleaning lady for the rest of her life. West: Old Goldkrone Kingdom, a bustling city with … _opportunity_. And perhaps a way to make it across the waters to Kinkan.

There is security—maybe happiness—in one direction. And hope—maybe glory—in the other.

She wills her heart not to fail her, and heads west.

* * *

Somewhere deep beneath the earth, an old clock, a relic, begins to tick after years of silence.

From within comes a mournful sigh, and the dark sorcerer, Drosselmeyer, frowns in distress.

How can anyone get any decent rest in the afterlife when the last of the Royal Family is still waddling around up there?

Such a tragedy.

* * *

"No money or travel ticket? Find Fakir," says a whispering crone, "in the Old Castle. He will see to it that you receive due passage to Kinkan Kingdom."

Ahiru knows it's against some law or another, but it's the only direction she has.

Goldcrone Castle is dilapidated and seemingly empty. Wooden boards block the windows and main entrances, dust clings to each surface, and the air smells stagnant and still—as if frozen in time.

She pushes past a loose board and squeezes in, her steps echoing in the silence.

These halls … these windows … these paintings … this _place_ …

She retraces steps she's sure she's never taken, fingertips dancing along banisters that she's certain she's never touched. She's bowing to the shades, kissing the cheeks of sisters that aren't hers, laughing with a brother who never pulled her hair or stained her clothes with juice. She doesn't have a father, certainly not this shadow who takes her hand and twirls her into a dance that she doesn't know how to perform, and this sweet lullaby in her ears is unfamiliar and mysterious, yet she still feels like home.

"Hey, you!"

She stumbles and lands on her knees on the hard floor, the ghosts dissipating like they never were.

In their place, a man jogs up to her, tall and lean, with a stern, handsome face. But his frown is harsh and she finds herself glaring right back.

It takes him a moment to look at her before his heart is in his throat—the blue eyes, the strawberry hair, her petite frame—she appears much like Princess Tutu in the paintings. Older. Longer hair, tied in a tight braid down her back.

And in the deep, dark recesses of his memories, he recalls. His mind wanders back to the little box he'd found and kept all these years. He's reminded of the old scar across his chest and it stings beneath his shirt and vest. He remembers the girl who spilled the chowder at least once a week in the kitchens—the same who smiled like everything was good in the world.

… But the real Princess Tutu must be long-since dead (because despite his best efforts, he was useless). Instead, Fakir smirks as Mytho comes upon the scene. No, he'll never find the real Tutu—but they might've found someone just as useful.

* * *

They leave the next morning on a train to the docks—Ahiru with a new, free ticket, hoping that Fakir and Mytho are right: perhaps she _can_ be the long-lost Princess Tutu. And what lost, lonely girl doesn't want to find out she's a princess?

Maybe her family will welcome her with open arms in Kinkan Kingdom.

* * *

Ahiru, Fakir finds, is incomparably irritating.

They do their best to educate her on matters of royal behavior and history, but there is much to remember, and Ahiru is a difficult learner. She sighs in frustration and pouts, Mytho chuckling nervously while Fakir scolds her for her lack of concentration.

But she meets him halfway in their mutual dislike for one another. Bossy, mean, and snooty, she calls him, with a fire blazing in her eyes and a frown on her lips. They kick one another beneath the table, elbow each other as they pass by, roll their eyes at the other's antics.

"Be nice," chides Mytho to Fakir one day on the train, "She is a lady after all, and she is likewise a _princess_. If not by birth, then by name as of now."

Fakir scoffs in reply and grabs their bags to heft them off of the train. "I'll be nice when _she_ grows up."

"… Ah. You like her, then."

Fakir accidentally drops a bag on his foot with a sudden jerk and yelps. Mytho chuckles behind his hand.

* * *

He's nicer to her, suddenly. When he takes her hand to escort her onto the carriage that takes them to the docks, his hold is warm, if fleeting.

Fakir's still frowning, of course, but his eyes are gentler. She finds herself blushing when he looks at her now.

* * *

He sees her stop before the boat, staring up at it with uncertainty bleeding from her eyes.

… Maybe he feels a bit remorseful, putting so much on such a young lady. He sees her anxiety now—traveling to a far-off place, with no family, no connections, all on her own, hoping that she might be a princess, not for the fame and prestige and respect, but only so she can _belong_ somewhere.

It's a passing thought, elusive and quick, but lingering, like a firefly in the night; he can't help but let it cross his mind for but that brief moment.

… She could belong with him.

He shakes his head and turns away from the boat.

* * *

It's such a pretty dress. He apparently bought it before they set sail for Kinkan. She blushes at the soft, yellow fabric as he coughs and gently encourages her to try it on.

Up until now, she doesn't really believe herself to be Princess Tutu—how can a princess be as silly and absentminded as she? But when she wears the gown and he looks at her with such unmasked awe, maybe she feels a bit more like royalty.

Mytho smiles, and coaxes them to waltz. A simple dance, but necessary in royal parties and the like.

Their faces are red, but he leads her fluidly, and she lets him. He dances better than she does, actually—as if he spent hours watching waltzes. But that's a ridiculous thought, isn't it?

Still, it's … it feels like she's floating.

… So what if she isn't Princess Tutu? So what if she is? Will Fakir still be there, regardless? Can they … dance again like this? Sometime?

When she steps on his foot, she sputters, blurting out her apologies. "I-It was an accident! I—!"

He snorts, and brushes her cheek with his thumb. "… Accidents happen, idiot."

They part after a while, but her world is still spinning.

* * *

Lady Rue, a distant niece and lady-in-waiting to Queen Edel, interviews her.

Ahiru can't help but be stricken by Rue's striking beauty and composure, but she smiles a little at the soft glances between the lady and Mytho.

There is one final question, and Rue straightens. Somehow, Ahiru knows this one is pivotal.

"How did you escape Goldkrone with Her Majesty, Ahiru?"

* * *

A cold chill runs down Fakir's spine, and he knows it's over.

* * *

Escape …?

… She does remember the chaos, suddenly. Chaos that she's sure she's never experienced. And when Ahiru speaks, it's more to herself than to Rue, so lost in her thoughts as she is.

"There's … there was a boy.

"He opened a wall, I think. Is that strange? It sounds a little strange, saying it out loud."

* * *

The cold chill turns into a shower of frigid water down Fakir's body, and realization hits him with more force than a Crow's dagger.

* * *

Rue, convinced, easily sways the group to join her in shopping for the ballet—the very event where Ahiru shall meet Queen Edel.

Kinkan Kingdom is a beautiful town, full of life and vibrant energy. There's a sense of excitement in the air that Ahiru has never felt before, and she's grinning the entire night, holding onto the crook of Fakir's arm. She dances and shops, eyes dazzled by the lights and spectacles around her.

He's numb, though.

 _No more pretend. You'll be gone; that's the end._

* * *

The night of the ballet arrives, and though Ahiru looks utterly distressed, she looks likewise completely radiant in white and sky-blue, and Fakir forgets how to breathe.

He forgets how to compliment her, too. He forgets how to speak entirely.

Mytho catches him before he takes his seat, pulling him away and off to the side. "Fakir," he asks, eyes soft and sad, "are you—have you fallen in love with her?"

Fakir replies with a wry smirk. "It was an accident."

* * *

So … that's all it is, then.

Ahiru doesn't even know where she's going at first, her tears blurring her vision too much. Somehow, the sound of Fakir's frantic calls only make her feel worse.

So she's just an actress. She isn't Princess Tutu. The Queen isn't her grandmother, and she still has no family.

And Fakir never felt— _she_ doesn't mean anything like that to him, does she? She is just here to … get him his prize money.

She truly doesn't belong anywhere.

She feels wretched. She feels ill. And when she feels him catch up and clutch her wrist, she whirls around and shakes her head, tears streaming down her cheeks and smearing the make-up Rue gave to her.

Ahiru doesn't even remember what she screams at him, but it makes him stop following her and that's good enough.

Looking at him hurts too much.

* * *

And _seeing_ her looking at him like that hurts too much.

So he takes matters into his own hands.

* * *

The Queen surprises her in the inn, and Ahiru feels a bit blindsided.

But there's something warm about Queen Edel's presence—comforting and understanding. Once again, it's like she's home, the scent of oak wood and mint playing in her nostrils.

Her pendant is heavy around her neck, and the music box weighs significantly in her cupped hands, and the memories surge forward like a wave on the sand. The lullaby escapes her lips before she recalls the memories completely.

She doesn't know who is sobbing more, but she finds a sense of belonging and wonderment at being within Grandmama's arms again. She thinks of her siblings and her father and mother, and refuses to think of Fakir.

Ahiru—Princess Tutu doesn't need anyone else anymore.

* * *

Outside, Fakir stares up at her window, before walking away.

* * *

When they meet again, it's tense and swift, and _empty_.

"I'm glad you found what you were looking for," he says stiffly, his back straight and his expression stony.

She tries to look proud, but her bottom lip is trembling. She wants to yell at him, ask him why, maybe find out if he ever felt _anything_ at all for her.

But she swallows and takes a deep breath. "Y-You, too."

He bows with respect and uses her title before he takes his leave, and she is so close to falling to her knees at how impersonal and cold this feels. It isn't right. It isn't right at all.

"Goodbye, Your Highness."

"… G'bye."

* * *

Princess Tutu wanders away from her own party, her mind swimming.

Grandmama's words simply will not leave her head. "Seeing you alive and well, the woman you've become, is all I've ever needed. It is enough for me. But is it enough for you?"

"… Grandmama?"

"… He didn't take the money." The queens eyes were gentle, all-knowing, and understanding.

She ventures out the back and into the gardens, needing the crisp night air to soothe her now. Fakir already left, though, though there's so much she wants to ask him, there's so much she wants to know and wants to say to him, and she knows that she's likely lost that chance forever.

She belongs with Grandmama now, doesn't she? Isn't that all she's ever wanted? Isn't this why she came out here?

Is it selfish to think that it isn't enough?

" _Ah, such a tragedy, isn't it, Princess Tutu, to see you so sad, alone, when you believed all your wishes came true …?_

" _My. What a happy, little accident, that you should end up out here."_

Her heart stops in her chest.

The sorcerer in the ice.

She turns, and his swirling, brown eyes and disembodied hands grow closer to her, the sounds of cogs grinding all around.

The curse …

She doesn't know what to do. All she can do is run, her heels more of a hindrance than an aid. She kicks them off and darts away again, and makes a mad dash toward Kinkan Castle.

The way is suddenly blocked by giant, foreboding wheels and gears, and disembodied, gloved hands curl around her neck.

* * *

But Fakir refuses to fail her again.

He's through with making mistakes and through with letting her leave his life.

He loves her—maybe he always has—and if all she can give back to him is rejection, then he'll take it, because she at least deserves to know that someone in the world loves her with every ounce of his being, princess or not.

Tutu, Ahiru—it makes no difference as long as she's smiling.

So when he stumbles upon the scene, he doesn't question all the impossibilities or the ridiculousness of such a scenario.

He simply throws himself at the sorcerer, and he swears he won't be useless.

* * *

In the end, Fakir holds tightly to her, and she finds the strength in his arms to look Drosselmeyer in the eye.

She clutches the cursed clock in her hands, then rears back, and smashes it into the ground.

The relic shatters, gears and cogs flying every which way and sending all of them tumbling backward. Drosselmeyer collides with the ground. Fakir curls his arms around Ahiru, shielding her from the impact and taking the brunt of the force himself.

But he's used to pain, and he'll take it all for her.

The sorcerer disperses into dust, his mad laughter lingering on after him.

When all is quiet,Ahiru throws herself into Fakir's embrace.

* * *

Queen Edel smiles through tears as she reads the letter that was left and addressed to her earlier that evening. Mytho laughs, and Rue shakes her head with a smirk, because elopement is just so predictably _them._

The Queen wishes them well, confident in their promises to be together again soon.

* * *

Ahiru and Fakir board a ship back to his home in Old Goldkrone. Maybe they'll settle in. Maybe they'll go elsewhere and explore. They're not sure yet, and that's just fine.

She tries to kiss him, jumping up to her toes and throwing her arms around his neck, but she bumps her nose painfully against his own. He grunts and winces away from her.

"I'm so sorry, I just keep hurting you tonight! It was an accident!"

He rubs his nose, deadpan, and then reaches out to hold her cheeks between his hands, keeping her head still. She's blushing, and so is he, but as their noses just barely brush against one another and their foreheads touch, he smiles through his embarrassment.

"Idiot. Accidents happen."

It's all one, big accident, really, that they end up here from where they began. And maybe they both know that she could have easily gone east and become a cleaning lady, or that he could have easily found another actress to bring to Kinkan, or that they both could have died ten years ago …

There's a myriad of things that never happened or that did happen all on accident.

But this …

This will be on purpose.

He kisses her. It's searing, yearning, and passionate; he kisses her in a way a common kitchen boy never should kiss a proper princess.

Ahiru doesn't mind one little bit.

* * *

 _in the end, i wanna be standing  
at the beginning with you_


	3. Day 3: Slow

_Fakiru Week 2015  
Slow  
Warnings: modern shenanigans, hardcore crushes, road rage, and a make-out session_

* * *

Fakir pinches the bridge of his nose. " _Please_ tell me you aren't serious."

His foster father chuckles, amused at Fakir's expense. "Dead serious. I need my own car to visit Raetsel and Hans today. Don't be a snob—it drives like a dream!"

More like a nightmare.

Fakir cringes at the sight of the old Geo Metro that sits in Karon's garage. It's the color of rust (or maybe it _is_ rust—at this point, Fakir wouldn't have been surprised) and has stains splattered all over the seats and interior (and he doesn't want to know what it is, ever). The trunk apparently doesn't lock all the way, and Karon only drives it once a week to keep the battery going as long as possible. Why Karon keeps this thing around is beyond him. Maybe it's due to some sort of sentimental value.

Fakir has his own car, a reliable Camry he bought off Craig's List and fixed up by himself, but after getting rear-ended the other day, his vehicle has been stuck in the shop for the weekend.

Tonight is Rue's recital, and she made Mytho and all of her immediate friends swear to attend. And, on top of all that, he's supposed to be Ahiru's ride.

With a groan, Fakir nods his head as Karon claps him on the back. Beggars can't be choosers.

* * *

He actually makes an effort to look presentable tonight. It's for the event, he swears, not for Ahiru in particular. But Karon does notice and comment that he looks rather put-together for the evening, and a couple of girls who live in their apartment complex giggle and wave to him as he makes his way over to the Geo. His dark grey Henley and dark jeans fit him well, he supposes, but the effort is likely to go unnoticed anyway.

He brings a sweater tucked over his elbow, too, because the heater doesn't work in the damn car.

When he sits in the driver's seat, he grimaces. This thing has _manual windows_.

It starts only after a few turns of the ignition, a couple of tired revs, and a thousand curses from his lips. Then, he's on the road to pick up his best friend. He prays for the night to go smoothly as the car rumbles and groans down the paved road.

* * *

His heart drops into the pit of his stomach and his palms sweat on the steering wheel when she steps out of her house.

She wears a bouncy yellow mini-skirt with a white blouse and cardigan, with a dainty little bow pinned to her long, wavy hair. It doesn't look like it's enough clothes for the chilly evening, but Fakir forgets how to scold her when she walks up to the car—plus, his jaw is on the ground, and he doesn't have a mind to pick it up yet.

"Hi, Fakir—! Eh?" She pauses outside the passenger door when he reaches over and fumbles to unlock it. "Your car's still in the shop?"

He swallows and hides his reddened cheeks with a scowl as the door swings open. She slips into the seat, her skirt fluttering around her legs. "Yeah. Just get in or we'll be late."

Ahiru falls silent as she buckles up and places her white purse on her lap, and Fakir forces his gaze away.

He's such a goner.

* * *

 _Oh no,_ she thinks, _he's hot._

Ahiru fidgets in her seat and decides to stare out the window instead of the way his fitted long sleeves are rolled up to his elbows or how the top button of his shirt is undone.

It looks like he's really dressed up. He hasn't really said anything about her outfit, but he probably doesn't think much of it. Her heart sinks a little bit and she gives a little shiver. "Um," she ventures with a tiny smile, "you—you look nice!"

He stiffens as the car gives a little rumble. "Thanks … you, too."

Her smile widens. That's … that's something. She rubs her knees as if to warm them up.

Fakir hits the gas as they near the freeway. Rue's performance is all the way in the next city, but they're making good time now. He seems to have noticed how chilly she is, though, because he glances at her from the corner of his eye. "You can grab my sweater if you're cold. Backseat."

"Oh! Kay!"

She temporarily unbuckles herself and turns in her seat, reaching for his jacket. When she faces forward again, she buckles up once more and wraps his sweater around her legs.

It sort of smells like him. Masculine and strong. She blushes.

* * *

Meanwhile, Fakir is very much aware that _his_ jacket is on _her_ legs. He pulls onto the on-ramp and tries to keep his mind on the road and not on his best friend of five years.

It wasn't always like this. He doesn't exactly know _when_ his feelings changed. But over time, her embraces began to mean more, her smiles made his heart race, and spending time with her—just her—became some of his most precious moments.

Now, she's the most important person in his life.

He breaks out of his musing, though, when his car gives an alarming jerk.

"Oh no," he whispers, gripping the gear shift.

"W-What? What's wrong?"

"No, no, _no_."

Indeed, the car begins to slow, dropping in speed. Behind him, a car blares its horn impatiently and swerves around him.

Fakir grits his teeth. The horrible realization sets in.

"Fakir—?!"

"The car's stuck in first gear."

* * *

They're hobbling along pathetically on the highway. Fakir _hates_ the slow lane. In fact, he detests it. But the only way to this event is using this route, and they're already late as it is. He tried turning on his emergency lights, but his damn blinkers decided to go out about two miles back.

Now, they're going 20 miles per hour on the freeway.

Another blaring horn. Fakir rolls— _literally has to roll, oh God this is sad—_ his window down and barks out, "Come around me, dammit!"

Ahiru shrinks down into her seat as someone flashes their brights from behind them, tailgating without remorse. "F-Fakir—!"

On instinct, he reaches over to take her hand and give it a comforting squeeze. "Alright, I'll hop off at the next exit."

She squeezes his hand back.

Someone rides up next to them and hollers as they zoom past, " _Get off the road!_ "

"Buzz off, moron!" He grinds his teeth again, but doesn't release her hand. "Idiots! All of them!"

"W-Well—!" She straightens up with an anxious frown. "Maybe they'll stop yelling if _you_ stop yelling, too!" She doesn't mean to incite him into growing angry or anything, but she's genuinely scared at this point, and his grumpiness isn't helping.

Utterly not in the mood, Fakir barks back, "I wouldn't be yelling if I was in this stupid car going to this stupid performance in the first place!"

"Then maybe you shouldn't have come and got me! I could've gotten a ride from someone else, you know!"

Incensed, he grips the steering wheel as someone else honks behind him. "You know what, you're _right_. These things only happen when I'm with you anyway!"

"Y-You—you're such a _jerk_!"

"And _you're_ an idiot!" Another blaring horn, and Fakir turns to look out the window once more, "S _top_ _ **honking**_ _at me!_ "

She rips her hand from his, and he lets her, the interior falling into tense, cold silence.

* * *

True to his word, he takes the next exit available, if only to make it so the jerks on the road stop upsetting the girl in his passenger seat. Or so _he_ stops upsetting her. Same difference.

Not that he has much of a choice. He pulls up to the side of the road, in a shady spot in the darkness covered by trees, and sighs, scowling at the pathetic, dry cough noises that the car is making.

He shuts off the engine and leans back with a scowl. They're going to have to get this thing towed, aren't they?

The sun has set, and the performance has undoubtedly already started. Ahiru sighs and presses her forehead against the window. "I think we're gonna miss it."

… Honestly, the dullness to her tone makes him feel worse than her angry shrills.

Fakir has never been fond of Rue, himself, but he knows that the ladies are as close as sisters. So the guilt is cold and heavy on his shoulders, and he reaches into his pocket for his phone. "Sorry. You should've gotten a ride with someone else."

He's about to dial for a tow service, but he's stopped when she shakes her head. "I … no, I really looked forward to riding with you." She wrung her hands into her skirt. "It's why I asked you. I didn't know your car would still be—it just wasn't supposed to be like this, I guess. You're right, too; these things only really happen when I'm around, huh?"

Fakir winces. No. He didn't mean that. He never meant that, and he never would mean that. "… That's not true."

"Yes, it is."

"No, it's—!" He thumps his head against the top of the steering wheel. "It's _not_. You're …"

He glances over, and the minute he sees her bottom lip tremble, he absolutely can't stand it. He sits up and puts it all on the line, hoping to make up for … well, him. "You're great. Okay? You're … you're incredible. I never meant to make you feel otherwise. I … yeah."

Maybe she understands him more than anyone else, because she gives him a tiny, tearful smile, knowing that this is his way of apologizing. God, he thinks she's the prettiest girl in the world right now, and he can't get a hold of himself.

"You … you think I'm incredible?"

He snorts, but his expression is gentle. "… Just know that it's the stupid car's fault, not yours."

She bites her lip when she feels a brighter smile overtake her. She sniffs and rubs her eyes with the sleeve of her cardigan. "W-Well … I think you're incredible, too. But you need to— _hic_ —work on your teh— _hic_ —temper! A-And stop being all— _hic_ —fussy on the road!"

His cheeks heat up and he reaches over, trying to help her wipe the streams of tears from her cheeks. "Hn. I can't be that great if I make you cry all the time."

"You don't make me cry a— _hic_ —all the time." Somehow, he feels her lean forward and into his touch, and his lips part and his pulse quickens.

"Sorry. Sometimes, I feel like that's all I do."

"It's not! You … you make me happy, too. A lot of the time."

She stares up at him from beneath damp eyelashes, and there's a flush to her freckled cheeks that's even noticeable in the darkness.

He finds himself hoping. And through that hope, he finds courage.

Fakir arches over the center console, and presses his forehead to hers. "How can I do that all of the time?"

Her lips are trembling again, and he has a gut feeling that it's for another reason altogether.

She doesn't answer with words. She only reaches up to touch his chin with her fingertips.

That's enough for him.

When he kisses her, it's a simple brush of lips against her own, electrifying and warm. God, she's soft, and he drags his lips across hers, testing and giving her all the room to pull away.

She does. And at first, Fakir thinks he's made a mistake—maybe he misinterpreted, maybe he's breached her boundaries, maybe he's completely _ruined_ their friendship now.

But when she pulls back, she's bright, bright crimson, and her chest is heaving for breath. Then, she dives back in and reinstates the contact on her own terms.

Is that his pulse hammering in his ears? Hers? A mix of both?

Doesn't matter. Because a few seconds later, his hands are digging into her hair and her arms are thrown around his neck. They're not sure how to go about it and it's awkward as hell with the console in the middle of them, but they do their damn hardest. He holds her head still so she doesn't turn the wrong way, and she latches onto him so he has no choice but to keep going.

She's giggling into the liplock, and he's smirking into her lips, and it's definitely getting warm in here. They both have zero experience with kissing, and Fakir's pretty sure that people usually make out in the _backseat_ , but their fumbling hands are eager and they're all too enthusiastic to keep going.

They don't know what they're doing.

That's okay; they can practice.

* * *

It's only later that evening, after the tow service has been called and both Ahiru and Fakir are safely at home, that Fakir finds out that they'd ended up pulling over just around the corner from Rue's theater.

Karon shakes his head. "Wow, what rotten luck! Sorry the car gave you so much trouble!"

Fakir shrugs and heads to his room, hiding a smirk and toying with Ahiru's bow in his pocket.

Eh. Not a bad day, actually.


	4. Day 4: Noise

_Fakiru Week 2015  
Noise  
"Beloved" by GLAY  
Lyrics in the end are a loose __English translation_ _of the song. Highly recommended to listen to it as an accompaniment to this piece!_

* * *

"Ahiru, turn that noise off right now!"

"It's not noise! It's music!"

"It's _rubbish_!

"But Dad—!"

"Turn it off! It's getting late!"

With a frown, she lightly shuts her door and crosses her bedroom to her radio. She turns it off, and then throws herself onto her bed, burying her face into her pillow.

* * *

Her laptop is open and she sits on her bed, grinning at the video feed of her best friends. It looks like a lot of fun, living in a dorm and going to a university. There are benefits to attending the community college nearby and being able to stay with her parents, but … there are a few downsides, too.

Sometimes, she wishes she was accepted with her friends.

They're squealing about _Fairytale_ 's album that just came out a few days ago. "I didn't get mine yet," Ahiru says, smiling brightly at her poster, "but I'll go to the store tomorrow and pick it up!"

"Oh, definitely! You'll love some of the new songs!" Pique picks up the CD cover and holds it up to the webcam for Ahiru to see. "Look how _brooding_ your favorite looks!"

From behind it, Lilie pipes in, "Did you hear the latest gossip about Mytho and Rue, by the way?"

Pique lowers the album from the camera and puts her chin in her hands. "Oh, oh, tell her, Lilie, tell her!"

" _Well_ , don't mind if I do!" Lilie matches Pique's pose. "Apparently they might be secretly _dating_! Can you believe it? Oh, but they say that Autor might have unrequited feelings for Rue, too! Ahhh~! There might be a battle! They might have to—!" She pauses for dramatic effect. "— _break up the band_!"

Pique shakes her head, cupping her cheeks and blushing. "No, no, if they did that, I'd probably die!"

"Honestly, Ahiru, you sheltered little thing, you~! How could you not know~?"

"Of course she wouldn't know! None of them are her favorites!"

" _What~?_ Oh, but wasn't she so dreadfully in love with Mytho since _forever_ , no matter how untouchable he may be to her~?"

"Well, yeah, maybe she used to be." Pique smiles at the screen, winking at Ahiru through the internet. "But she's turned her focus to the dark, the brooding, the ever-ice-king, Fakir!"

"Why, _Ahiru_ ~! I never would have guessed that you like the bad boys~!"

Ahiru laughs nervously and scratches the back of her head, a tinge of pink touching her cheeks as she lets her gaze wander up to her _Fairytale_ poster. Mytho, the heartthrob and guitarist, is in the center, and he often switches main vocals and guitar with the strikingly beautiful Rue, who stands beside him. Autor, the keyboard player, is on the leftmost edge, and Femio, the dramatic drummer, on the rightmost. And to Mytho's right is the quiet bassist, Fakir.

Out of all of the bandmates of _Fairytale_ , it's true that Fakir does look the most … intimidating, with his dark hair pulled back into a low ponytail, green eyes deep and sharp …

Ahiru draws her knees up to her chest, clutching their very first album between her fingertips.

Intimidating as he might be, it isn't the "bad-boy" persona that Lilie seems to think she's drawn to.

According to the album books and personal interviews with his bandmates, Fakir is the one who writes all their songs.

She smiles wistfully. What sort of person is he, to write with such honesty and sensitivity?

* * *

She picks up their new album the next day, and puts one of the sweet ballads sung by Rue on repeat. Ahiru sighs into her pillow as the music pulses through the air, feeling the beat of the rhythmic bass over anything else.

" _Hold on, love.  
_ " _I'll be here, I'll stay.  
_ " _Rest your head with mine.  
_ " _Tomorrow, we'll fly away"_

"Turn that off!" her father barks from downstairs, "I'm trying to work!"

Ahiru sighs again and tries not to cry.

* * *

"Ahiru! Ahiru! Oh my gosh!"

"Ahiru, _darling_ , you will just _die~!_ "

"We called dozens and dozens—!"

"— _Hundreds_ ~!"

"—of times! And we made it through! We were Caller 4 on Kinkan Radio!"

"We battled and fought and suffered and _bled_ —!"

"—and we won!"

Ahiru almost drops the phone when her friends scream into the receiver in unison:

" _ **We have front row VIP tickets, and you're coming with us**_ **!** "

* * *

Her parents say no, despite matter how much she begs. "You can be doing something more important with your time," her mother says, "instead of going out to who-knows-where. You may get hurt! You don't know those people out there!"

"You have to focus on your studies," her father says sternly, raven-black hair obscuring his eyes, "instead of daydreaming about these _bands_."

* * *

But … she needs this.

Because through every rejection letter, through every stumble, through every embarrassing moment and criticism, _Fairytale_ and Fakir's words were there every step of the way, keeping her together and inspiring her to move forward. _Fairytale_ has been her lifeline for so long.

To see them in front of her … from the front row … to be able to personally _thank_ them for all they've done for her …

This is her only chance.

Pique and Lilie park around the corner, unseen. And Ahiru sneaks out to meet them.

* * *

It's everything she can ever want and more

Sure, it's crowded and rowdy, and Ahiru feels a little out of place while everyone is screaming their heads off and waving their arms in the air, but she's in the front row, just mere _feet_ from them.

Mytho and Rue are dazzling, flashing smiles and singing with pure, enthusiastic voices as their fingertips are nimble, quick, and experienced on their guitar strings. Autor has his trademark smirk, raising an eyebrow at his fans from behind his glasses as his hands fly across his keyboard. Femio rocks out behind the drums, luscious plum-colored hair fluttering with every beat.

And all Ahiru has to do is reach out onto the stage to brush Fakir's shoe. She doesn't, though, because she's just awestruck at the fact that he's _here_ , just an arm-reach away. He's serious as always, never looking up to greet his fans, moving with the music and losing himself in it. But her eyes never leave him, and she can see that his lips move slightly with the lyrics—lyrics that _he_ wrote, all by himself, though Mytho is the one who sings it.

" _Baby, you got me on my knees,_  
" _Make me never wanna leave._ "

Ahiru knows every word to every song, and she mouths them with Fakir, returning those words right back, silently pouring her gratitude into that alone.

She feels her heart leap when Fakir glances up for once, as if _sensing_ her unwavering gaze of admiration.

The world stops when his eyes meet hers.

* * *

She prays that she won't embarrass herself.

Her knees are knocking together, so she's grateful that Pique and Lilie are latched to each of her arms and keeping her stable.

Then, the band walks in.

Pique and Lilie squeal, finally releasing Ahiru as they push through the hoard of VIPs to reach their favorites. Mytho and Rue are near-impossible to approach immediately, but they handle the onslaught with elegance and graciousness. Autor seems to enjoy signing the albums and taking pictures with his own fans, but not nearly as much as Femio, who simply _oozes_ with pride.

Fakir is just as untouchable as Mytho and Rue, but far less accommodating.

His expression is stern as ever, and he goes through the motions, ignoring how they fawn and embrace and swoon over him. He signs their signature books without a word, and rolls his eyes as someone clings to his arm. "You're so ruggedly handsome~!" some say. "Ohhh, I love the way you play, Fakir~!" says another. "Why don't you sing, Fakir, I'll bet you sound amazing~!"

"I don't sing," is his only reply.

Ahiru is patient—or she's frightened, perhaps. Either way, she's in no rush to approach him, and something in her begs her to just stay on the sidelines until it's time to leave. She is able to see them in person—isn't that enough?

Then, the way is suddenly clear, Fakir's shoulders relaxing as his crowd disperses for a moment.

She … she shouldn't bother him. He doesn't look very happy to be here. And it's enough that she was able to see him at all! It's … it's enough …

* * *

… It's not enough.

She lets her feet carry her to Fakir's side.

* * *

The world is spinning, and she's incredibly off balance and can't even look him in the eye. But she holds out her new album and a marker, offering it to him as the worlds spill from her lips.

She thanks him. She thanks him as earnestly as she can manage through her blubbering and stuttering. She tells him that his writing touches her heart—that his words brought her out of the darkest parts of her life. She bows her head, trying to hide the blush that spreads across her cheeks as she tells him how much she _loves_ his songs. "S-So—!" She's near tears and her hands are shaking. "I-If you could just sign this, I—!"

Her breath leaves her lungs when his fingertips—calloused and rough—brush against her own when he takes the marker from her.

Fakir looks almost amazed. A look that she's never seen in all of their videos and interviews and pictures …

He clears his throat. "Don't cry, idiot. What's your name?" he asks, deep and flat, but not as rough as she expects.

Exhilarated and amazed that he just asked that, she releases a laugh through her tears. "I'm—I'm Ahiru! It's nice to meet you! And … you can't call me an idiot!" Now she's giggling, wiping at her eyes with her sleeves. "K-Kay?"

She thinks she hears him snort, but his eyes are still gentle.

* * *

She sneaks in as silently as she can. Then, she hides beneath her covers with a flashlight, grinning ear-to-ear as she opens the case of the album to see his signature. There are butterflies in her stomach as she searches for black marker and a messy scrawl of Fakir's name.

 _Ahiru—_

 _Thanks for that._

— _Fakir_

Another piece of stiff paper falls from the open CD case. A piece of paper that hadn't been there before.

It's another VIP backstage pass for their next concert.

* * *

Pique and Lilie don't stop screaming about this for the next week and a half.

* * *

Ahiru doesn't know how to feel when the night of the next concert arrives and Fakir's eyes are immediately drawn to her seat in the front row. She can only bring herself to grin and laugh, waving enthusiastically toward him as she bounces with the music, mouthing along with the lyrics that she knows so well, sung by Rue, written by Fakir.

" _You give me courage, darling,_  
" _Two hearts that are one._ "

For once, the stoic bassist blushes on stage.

* * *

She's stricken by how naturally _he_ approaches _her_ when the VIPs go backstage. He all but ignores everyone else. "How did you like the show?"

Ahiru answers honestly. "It—It was amazing! I … thank you so much for the ticket! I don't know what to say! I just … _wow_ , I don't know how to thank you at all! For everything!"

He gives her a casual shrug, expression dull, but not quite as harsh as he usually looks in the media.

She gets a few curious and downright scathing looks from other fans, because Fakir spends all of his time conversing with her. She tells him she's in college, with an undecided major, but an interest in dance. He tells her that his parents wanted him to be a dentist—she can't help but laugh at that.

"It's hard for me to focus in school, sometimes, and … I kinda fall asleep during boring lectures," she admits to him, as easily as if they'd been good friends for years. Perhaps they have been, because his songs have been such an important part of her life for a long while now. "But I really feel like ballet is what I want to do!"

"Then just do it." She finds that he's petty straight-forward, a little blunt, perhaps even to the point of insensitively so. He's so human. No longer just a face on her poster.

"It's not that easy, ya know!"

"Hn." He carelessly signs another fan's album and hands it back, before holding out his hand to Ahiru. "I'll give you my phone number. Text me when you want some decent instructors for a good price. I know a few through Rue."

"Oh! Okay! That would be great!"

* * *

She takes a taxi home.

It doesn't hit her until she's curled up under her covers and Fakir's picture on her wall stares down at her.

… _She has Fakir's phone number._

* * *

She doesn't text him at all for the next couple of days, still wondering if his name on her contacts list is real.

Finally, when her parents aren't home, she blasts _Fairytale_ 's "noise" on full volume to gather the courage to send him … something. Anything.

It's a simple hello, with a quick " _This is Ahiru!_ " immediately after, just in case he forgot about giving his number out to a random fan.

She laughs incredulously at the surprisingly swift reply: no greeting at all, just a list of several names and phone numbers—true to his word, they are the ballet instructors he told her about.

Still, it's a reply! And that's enough to send heat flocking to her cheeks and butterflies bursting in her belly.

Ahiru bites her lip, deliberating on how to respond. Deciding on a " _thank you, hope you're having a good day!_ " accompanied by the happiest emote she can find, she hits send and puts down her phone with a deep breath.

It buzzes almost immediately, and the message appears on the screen:

 _I've had better. You?_

* * *

He's a little rough around the edges, but he's definitely no "bad-boy."

She tells him about how boring English is. Then, he scolds her for texting during class. He often vents about Autor's lovesickness or Femio's stupidity, and she laughs at his expense.

Fakir is actually quite eloquent for someone who doesn't talk a lot during interviews and the like, and she finds out that he writes short stories. She convinces him to email one to her. In turn, he asks her about ballet, and if she's pleased with her teachers. She tells him that she's incredibly grateful for his references.

One day, after another altercation with her father, she texts him that her father thinks his music is "noise." _But it's not!_ she types furiously, _It's the most beautiful sound ever!_

It takes a bit longer for his reply. But it does come soon enough.

 _Thanks. No really. I appreciate that._

* * *

On one particularly stressful night, Ahiru cries, typing on her screen weakly. _Fakir_ , _I dunno … I'm really tired and I have so many things due this week and I don't know what to do maybe I should just drop or something this is too much and my parents are going to kill me if I screw up this semester. :(_

His reply is swift. _You'll be fine. You're smarter than you think. I believe in you._

 _You do?_

 _Yeah. What do you need help with? I can call you, if you want._

 _Wow … thank you! I'd like that!_

* * *

What starts as a lesson becomes casual chatting.

She likes his voice. She wonders what it would be like if he _did_ sing.

* * *

The next time she texts him, it's to excitedly let him know that she survived one of the most stressful weeks of her life. Once again, it's his words that get her through the tough times, and she thanks him.

She worries a bit when he doesn't respond for a few hours.

And then:

 _Good. I'm proud of you. Hey, by the way, I'm back in your town for a week. Dinner?_

* * *

Ahiru forgets to reply to him immediately, as she's too busy squealing into her pillow and jumping on her bed.

Her phone buzzes. _If you're not up for it, it's fine, no hard feelings._

She screams in dismay and fumbles for her phone to amend the situation.

She doesn't even mind when her father yells at her to keep the noise down.

* * *

Her mother is suspicious of the dark-haired young man who shows up at their doorstep to pick up her daughter. Her father simply will not acknowledge him at all.

Her curfew is ten. No later than that.

* * *

They decide on an evening picnic on the beach. Secluded, where they won't be bothered by random fans on the street.

Perhaps, a few months ago, Ahiru would've thought this to be some sort of impossible dream. Now, it … it feels natural. Like spending time with her more-than-best-friend.

When he kisses her under the stars, Ahiru suddenly understands. She doesn't feel the butterflies of a fan infatuated with the bassist of her favorite band.

She feels _sparks_. The sparks of a young woman who is falling for a someone who understands her more than anyone else. Somehow, that's better than any fantasy.

"I should introduce you to my friends," Fakir muses.

"I … well, you probably wouldn't want to meet mine!" she laughs, and his gaze is as gentle as it ever has been.

He kisses her again. And again.

* * *

"Do you _have_ to take me home now?" she mumbles into his chest.

She feels him press his lips to the top of her head. "I'd rather not upset your parents anymore than they already are."

They'd lost track of time.

He makes certain to walk her to her door, but they're a half an hour late. Still, he can't help but kiss her one more time before he leaves.

* * *

"You didn't tell us that boy is in that noisy band."

"That's so disruptive, Ahiru. You know better than that."

"You think someone like that, with all that fame, will really stick around?"

"You can't see him anymore, Ahiru."

"It's for your own good."

"We're only doing this to protect you."

With every word they say, another piece of her heart shatters.

* * *

"Look, if I could just see her—"

"She doesn't need her heart broken."

"I'd never hurt—!"

"There's too much she has to do and she can't be distracted. Now, get off my property before I call the police."

* * *

Her posters are ripped from her wall, her CDs taken away, and she's given a new phone with a brand new number and a cleared contacts list.

She cries more often than not, lately. But she tries to keep his words in mind, and listens to the memory of his music in her heart.

It's hard, and she's heartbroken, but she needs to move forward.

Even if her father _is_ right, even if Fakir does move on, she'll continue to do her best with the strength that he left her.

She studies, she dances, she studies, she dances.

* * *

She watches television, dully flipping through channels with her math book open in her lap. Life has been quiet. Pique and Lilie often remark that she seems sad, and that they can try to get more _Fairytale_ tickets at their next opportunity, just for her.

Ahiru only sobs more at the thought. Her friends don't know what to say.

Her fingers pause on the remote, though, when she comes upon the music channel.

 _Fairytale_ has a new single out. And the music video has just been released.

Her jaw falls slack as it begins to play, and instead of Mytho or Rue, Fakir is the one who takes the mic in his hand.

Deep, husky, and earnest, he sings for the first time, and she brings her hands to her lips as she watches.

Every note, every riff, every beat speaks to her, wrapping around her in a comforting blanket that feels so much like his arms. The music swells with his voice and his emotion. His knuckles are white on the mic, his eyes are shut. He sings to the world, but she knows he's really whispering into her ear.

* * *

" _Lost at a crossroad,  
"We lose our way, and stop.  
"But we'll keep walking  
"For a chance—for that love.  
"I'll live like myself,  
"If you're by my side.  
"Even if this dream ends,  
"From now on, I'll always love you._"

* * *

She buries her face in her hands and weeps, her chest aching fiercely, her body quivering. Because his voice is beautiful and heartfelt, each extended note revitalizing her spirit and giving her _wings_.

It's his message—in the only way he knows how to give it. And somehow she knows it's just for her.

It's time that she responds in kind.

She packs her bags and keeps the television on, letting Fakir's "noise" echo all throughout the house as she leaves.

She'll see him soon.


	5. Day 5: Festival

_Fakiru Week 2015  
Festival  
The Obon Festival is a Japanese summer celebration in which people honor the deceased and families are reunited._

* * *

Fakir leaves flowers, offerings, and a lantern at the altar. He bows before the photos of his parents, his expression stony.

* * *

"You should come," Mytho implores, "Rue's going to dance at the very top tonight."

Fakir busies himself by sweeping his kitchen. If Mytho thinks he's going to convince him by bringing up _Rue_ , then maybe his best friend doesn't know him that much at all. "Enjoy that."

Mytho sighs audibly. "All our schoolmates are going to be there. It's … I think it'll be good for you."

"You'd be wrong."

"Look, it would mean a lot to _me_ if you came with us. Please."

At this, Fakir glances up from his diligent work, deadpan and tired.

* * *

The afternoon is warm and comfortable. It isn't an alien feeling, being here—the sights of lanterns strung up between booths, the music and the chatter and the overall air of celebration and togetherness is nostalgic.

Fakir spots a little boy nibbling on a chocolate-dipped banana, holding his mother's hand.

He averts his gaze.

* * *

Mytho seems to be enjoying himself just by walking around and taking in the sights. Fakir knows that his friend keeps glancing over to him, hoping to see some semblance of joy on Fakir's face. He also knows that Mytho is always disappointed when he doesn't.

They approach the yagura—the tall, towering structure on which people dance in celebration for their deceased ancestors. As Mytho said, Rue is at the top, dressed in a scarlet yukata, circling around the drums with the other elegant dancers. They're quite a sight, really, and had Fakir been in better spirits, he'd probably enjoy the poetry and grace of their dance for what is is.

As Mytho's eyes are dazzled by the sight of his girlfriend on the scaffold, Fakir let's his gaze fall to the dancers that circle around the structure on the ground.

One young lady seems to be completely unable to fall into step with the others, standing out like a sore thumb in the otherwise perfect counter-clockwise movement around the yagura.

It's a girl in yellow yukata, with a duck clip fastened into her red hair.

Moreso than the grace and charm of the other dancers, it's as if her presence alone is poetic enough. She's half a beat behind, unable to garner stable balance with the constrictions of her yukata, her fingers clenched too tightly around her fan.

But she's smiling, her blue eyes iridescent and glittering under the warm lights of the lanterns. Wisps of red tresses escape her braided bun with her stumbling movements, and with her laughter, his world slows down.

"Isn't she amazing?"

Time speeds forward and the moment is shattered—Fakir loses sight of the girl in the crowd.

Mytho eye's are still on Rue, so Fakir only shrugs in reply.

* * *

When the dance is over, Fakir excuses himself from Mytho's company, not looking forward to hanging around when he and Rue are being stupidly romantic. He takes a walk, and thinks about leaving before the sun even sets. He has homework, after all, and exams are hanging heavy over his head.

 _The lanterns are brightest at night, and he feels that sense of awe, that sense of magic and that anything in the world is possible, when the fireworks explode in the dark skies. He's closer to reaching them when he's sitting on his father's shoulders._

But as twilight approaches, a flash of yellow and orange-red catches his attention.

She's kneeling down at the fishing booth, her tongue sticking out from the corner of her lips as she focuses on the task at hand. Her friend with blonde hair playfully nudges her, and she yelps in dismay when the fish hops right out of her net and back into the water.

Despite himself, he's a little amused. But he continues to walk on, already set on taking his leave within the hour.

* * *

 _He remembers accidentally spilling his noodles onto his new yukata when he was young. His mother fussed, but his father only laughed._

Fakir stares at the soba booth with a frown. He's definitely not hungry.

Maybe he'll just leave now.

He turns to finally go, but once again, _she's_ there, giving him pause all over again.

She looks rather apprehensive, her eyes darting about, even when she has a bloom of cotton candy wrapped around a stick in her hand. The other are cradles a swelling, plastic bag with a little, golden fish swimming within. She's alone this time, standing still in the sea of moving people.

Fakir isn't a social person by any means, but he finds that his feet take him to her side regardless. The closer he gets, the more he realizes just how small she is, but she glances around and taps her feel anxiously, like a tiny ball of energy.

He doesn't know what to say at first, and he doesn't know why he tries. "… Ah. Are you lost?"

She jumps in surprise, but keeps her fish steady. "Oh! Hi!" She's quack-like, matching the slip in her hair. "Um … I kinda lost my friends! I mean, they should be around here … I guess I shouldn't put it past Lilie to ditch me in the middle of a big even like this one, and maybe Pique's distracted with so much going on, but I can't really blame them because I was the one who started spacing out …"

She speaks with rapid-fire chaos and no specific direction. She's nothing like anyone he's ever met before. Her words are accented, but surprisingly fluid.

But something keeps him from leaving on the spot. Maybe it's impolite to leave a young lady alone like this, especially if she's a tourist. Or maybe because her smile is so blinding and kind.

He raises an eyebrow. "… So you need help looking for them."

Her cheeks redden, endearing and, dare Fakir think it, sweet. "Y-Yes—only if you're not busy, though! I know you must want to go around having fun, too, but I'd really appreciate the help! Um … just until I can find them so they can take me home? I've never really taken the train on my own before, which sounds silly, but—!"

He decides to just start walking, trusting that the chattering lady beside him will follow.

She does, her words never ceasing.

* * *

The sun dips below the horizon. Her friends haven't appeared yet.

Fakir thinks he should be sad, maybe bitter, as darkness encroaches upon him and the memories with it. But with his new company, he finds that it isn't so bad.

Taking a step back and looking at it again after so long, he realizes that everything around him is quite … pretty.

Maybe he's influenced by the way she points everything out with enthusiasm, her eyes wide and amazed by every little thing. Like the innocence child, but with the deep appreciation of a young woman. He holds her fish for her as she explores.

In the whirlwind of her words, he finds out her name is Duck.

"Sorry! Am I rambling?" She scratches the back of her head with a smile. He raises an eyebrow as she continues to … well, ramble. "It's just—I moved here just a year ago! I've never been to something like this. I go to the International school! They say that the more I talk and get used to things, the easier it gets! So I've been talking nonstop since I got here! And singing nonstop! I'm not great, but I really, really like the karaoke—!"

He doesn't know why, but his lips quirk into a smile. Eventually, she pauses to ask about him, and he somehow doesn't mind sharing, though his life isn't nearly as interesting.

But she looks so happy to learn about him, and he doesn't know what to make of it.

* * *

An hour later, her friends still aren't around, but he finds that he doesn't mind.

She buys a lot of food and offers him candy. He hasn't really eaten sweets in a very long time, so he refuses.

At her disappointment, he repays her by winning her a stuffed animal, and when she blushes and thanks him, her eyes suddenly shy, he feels his heart skip a beat.

* * *

"Fakir?" she asks, playfully staring up at him through the water in her fish bag, her blue eyes wide and rippling as the goldfish swims past, "are you gonna make a lantern?"

He freezes.

 _He watches the lantern float off into the water, each of his hands in his parents'._

"No," he answers, too quickly, "I'm not."

"Oh …" She bites her lip, lowering the bag, and for all her rambles and clumsy mannerisms, he notices that she's quite in-tune with him. She seems to understand. "Well, would you like to come with me to make one? I want to do it for my parents."

Somehow, over the course of the night, they'd stopped searching for her friends entirely, so her invitation to have his company even more is … surprisingly welcome.

And he finds they have something in common. Suddenly, she seems much stronger than he is.

He doesn't know how he can face this whole festival, especially those lanterns, but he finds hope in her smile and agrees to keep her company.

* * *

Duck makes two.

She doesn't say why, and he doesn't ask. But he has an inkling as to what she's doing when she wordlessly hands one to him with a tiny smile, and then proceeds to lead him to the lake.

He doesn't fight it.

* * *

In the darkness, the warm glow sits upon the surface of the water, reflecting and soft, tranquil and light.

For the first time since his parents' accident, his eyes blur and sting. His fists clench at his sides. His chest begins to burn and he fights with everything he has to fend off the anguish.

This is why—he should never have come to this festival.

He feels her cool touch to his hand, her forehead resting against his upper arm.

"M-Me, too." He hears the quiver in her voice, the slight hitch of grief.

* * *

He holds her.

It's silly, because a few hours ago, they were strangers, but he holds her, her fish tucked safely and carefully between them.

Together, they let it in, they let it hurt, and they let it go.

* * *

She has to raise her voice, almost to the point of yelling, so he can hear her over the bursts and booms of the fireworks. "Was this a date?!"

His jaw falls slack, and he blinks. He hopes his voice doesn't crack when he bellows back, "If—If you want it to be?!"

"I do!" She's giggling now, the bursts of color and light dazzling in her blue eyes. "Can we have a second one?!"

He readily agrees, as long as it's not karaoke.

His heart is soothed, despite the rumbling fireworks in the sky. Duck's hand is warm in his own, and her spirited laughter is a balm on his spirit.


	6. Day 6: Future

_Fakiru Week 2015  
Future  
Companion piece / sequel to "_ _Noise_ _."  
Warnings: some cursing_

* * *

"— _Fairytale's newest hit single, "Beloved," has been at the top of the charts for six straight weeks now! Its popularity is absolutely explosive!"_

" _Who would've thought that Fakir Lohen, songwriter and bassist, had pipes like that!? It has to be about_ someone _, Katz! It has to be!"_

" _Unfortunately, Goatette, the usually private bass-player is as secretive as always! Looks like we'll never get the full story behind the—"_

Fakir turns off the radio and walks out of the room.

* * *

He sits with his bandmates, his fingers plucking at the strings of his bass as they talk. They're more ecstatic about their recent success than he is. Fakir considers putting down the bass to get some writing done, but he knows he won't be able to.

After the release of "Beloved," he hasn't been able to write anything new.

He poured every ounce of his heart into that song, thinking of her blue eyes and red hair, the way her head rested under his chin, her arms winding around his neck. Did she hear it? Does she know it's for her? Do his feelings reach her at all?

" _Your songs mean so much to me!"_ she once told him, " _They gave me strength when I had none!"_

Above all else, he just wants her happiness.

Weeks after writing it, he's run dry. He's empty. The world is gray and dull.

Even rereading saved texts can't seem to fill him with the inspiration and wonderment as her smile did.

* * *

Instead of writing a song, he writes a short story. Of a girl, sweet and fiery and kind, with an open heart and hopeful eyes, elusive and gone before he can free her.

* * *

Fakir misses her more with every passing day. They notice it, he knows.

"It'll be alright, Fakir," Mytho says kindly, "This will pass. The pain goes away, I promise."

But it doesn't.

* * *

Their producers are hounding them for more material—the media begs for more songs, more of Fakir's voice, and a good story as to how it came about.

His bandmates do their best to keep the pressure off his shoulders, but he knows that they're just as anxious about what to do next.

He regrets selling out his devotion and his affection to the hungry media and the shallow fans, his intimate feelings for her squandered by the public and relegated to the flavor of the month.

Once again, he dismisses the idea of trying to write another song.

He writes a letter instead.

He knows she'll never read it. He knows that any and all contact with him is completely cut off by her father. And if he tries anything drastic in an attempt to see her again, he might end up hurting Ahiru herself, in the end.

But he sends it anyway, and with it, his love.

* * *

They're backed into a corner, so Fakir picks up the pen and opens his songwriting book after weeks of nothing new.

His lyrics are poetic and the music is catchy. It'll be a good sell. People will like it.

It's useless and passionless, though, and he doesn't strum or pluck with the same fierceness and power as he did before. He leaves the theatrics and crowd-pleasing to the others.

Despite the fans and their frequent requests, Fakir refuses to sing again.

* * *

This isn't what he wants to do with the rest of his life. He tries to think of the possibilities before him, he tries to consider the future and what it may hold, but he's empty enough to not even care.

He goes through the motions.

* * *

What is she up to now?

Does she still think of him?

* * *

Most importantly, wherever she is, is she happy?

* * *

… That's all that matters, ultimately. Her happiness. With or without him, the world isn't worth a damn thing if she's not smiling somewhere in it.

His heartbreak and sadness is nothing. He's just another man in a crowd, regardless of whatever success this band has given him. But she deserves joy, and freedom, and a life outside of that house.

He hopes she's dancing every day.

* * *

The thought sends a flood of emotion through him, sudden heat and light replacing the cold gray for the moment.

Wouldn't it be wonderful if she's dancing now? Twirling on the tips of her toes and smiling like it's all she could ever need?

* * *

All he wants to do is see to it that she lives the way she chooses. On her own terms. With her own desires.

… Even if she's moved on, even if she's content without him, he just needs to know. He needs to see that she's smiling.

* * *

So … what the hell is he doing?

What the hell is he _waiting_ for?

* * *

"You're really going?" Mytho asks, concern on his features.

"Yeah."

"What about her dad?"

"Screw him," Fakir growls under his breath as he furiously zips up his duffel, "He's an asshole."

Mytho laughs incredulously as Fakir rushes out of their hotel room.

The band doesn't protest to postponing their tour as he takes the next flight out to her city.

* * *

When Fakir thinks about the future, he's not sure how to proceed.

But he envisions her beside him, and that's enough.

As he sits on the plane, he clicks his pen and begins to write a new song.


	7. Day 7: Partners

_Fakiru Week 2015  
Partners  
Takes place after "_ _Noise_ _" and "_ _Future_ _."_

* * *

She's free.

She has just a bit of savings to live off of for a while, but no real clue as to where to go. Still, she's free, and the feeling is both unnerving and uplifting all the same.

The only thing she's certain of is that she needs to find the one person in the world who understands her more than anything. Her strength and her inspiration lie with him, and he holds her whole heart in his calloused hands, and that's all the motivation she needs to embark on her new journey.

* * *

Her phone rings. She answers it more out of a force of habit than anything, and holds it away from her ear as she hears her father barking from the other end. With a deep breath, she brings the receiver to her lips and tries to speak over his enraged ramblings.

"It's okay, Dad. I'm safe, and I'll be fine. G'bye."

She hangs up before she can hear anything else.

* * *

Ahiru gathers all the money she has to buy a plane ticket. She doesn't have enough to possibly get a pass to their next concert, but at least she'll be in the same city.

It's enough. It has to be enough. She'll find him somehow, and as she plays his song for her over and over in her head, she knows that he must be waiting for her, too.

She'll find a way to reach him like he's reached her. She's not just some random fan in the crowd—not anymore at least. She doesn't idolize him or worship him—she's all too aware that he can be a bit of a jerk, and that he has long bouts of writers' block, and he really likes fantasy novels and video games …

She loves him for him.

* * *

He strides out of the arrival gate, wearing shades and a baseball cap. He keeps his head down as he ducks between the crowds of the airport.

While undoubtedly proud of his successes, he enjoys the publicity and fame far less. Outside of his bandmates, everyone only wants something out of him—a new song, an autograph, a photo. The public's demands are finite and fickle all at once.

But not Ahiru. Never Ahiru. Kind, honest, clumsy, and resilient Ahiru.

He smiles to himself as he whistles for a taxi, hefting his duffel over his shoulder.

* * *

Across the airport, she boards her own flight, singing his words under her breath.

* * *

 _He doesn't know what possesses him to slip that ticket into the CD case. He isn't one to be easily flattered by his fans._

 _But her gratitude is utterly palpable and her eyes are full of genuine appreciation—and maybe he feels like she deserves another show, if she adores their work this much._

 _Even hours after the show is over and his friends are having a celebratory drink in the peak of the evening, he can't seem to get that girl out of his mind._

* * *

Fakir takes a deep breath as he approaches the familiar sight of her house, bracing himself for the onslaught he knows he's about to face.

But with that comes the chance to see her again, and for that alone, he'll brave it all. His fear of Raven is stupid and irrational anyway.

Not all fathers are kind, and he needs to understand that much.

* * *

Her father's angular face is twisted in disdain when he opens the door—that's to be expected.

What _isn't_ expected is the fact that she _isn't here._

Raven points an accusing finger at him—because of Fakir's noise, Fakir's influence, Fakir's corruption, his daughter has picked up and left.

Her mother is more kind, more concerned (if her daughter isn't with the one who drove her to such drastic lengths, then _where_ is she?). "If you could," she implores, teeth worrying at her bottom lip, "please check with her friends at the university. They won't tell me anything. I … please."

The door is then swiftly shut in his face, and he can only stare blankly at the wood for a moment.

* * *

Then, he laughs to himself, despite the concern and panic that settles into his belly. God, that girl is constantly asking for trouble, and being such a little pest. She can't just sit still for one second, can she?

He comes all the way here to save her, and here she is, saving herself.

He swells with pride. And though he's worried sick about her now, his love for her keeps him grounded.

Well. The chase is on.

* * *

 _He's hit a rather nasty case of writers' block, so he picks up his phone and decides to text her. Perhaps it's gone on long enough to call her a friend at this point. Talking to her is … surprisingly pleasant._

 _He types onto the keyboard, "_ Hey. Writers' block. Taking a break."

 _Her reply is immediate, and he's rather pleased with that. "_ Oh! Yeah, you deserve it! :D I'm still reading that short story you emailed me! I really love the main character! He's shy but very kind! Give him a very happy ending okay!? You'd better or I'll get mad!"

 _It doesn't take much for his frown to lift a little with her replies, and his chest warms with her praise. He types back, "_ Alright, fine. Anyway, the writers' block is gone. Thanks."

"Oh! That quick? Cool!"

 _He picks up his pen again, suddenly inspired._

* * *

She's stranded in this unfamiliar city, with no money and no connections.

Apparently, _Fairytale_ 's tour has been postponed until a later date due to unknown reasons.

So … now what?

Ahiru slumps into a bench at a bus stop, feeling her hope drain away into disappointment and anxiety.

* * *

Fakir decides that Ahiru was right when she said he wouldn't want to meet her friends. Maybe the pink-haired one isn't terribly awful (even if she just kept staring at him throughout the entire conversation), but the blonde one is a monster.

Through the squealing and the screaming, they revealed absolutely nothing about Ahiru's whereabouts.

"The last we heard from her, all she said was that she was safe and going to be okay!" the pink-haired one said, her eyes dazzling as she continued to gaze upon him.

"Do you think she went to go find _you?!"_ squealed the blonde, "Oh my goodness, it's like a delightful and tragic romantic-comedy of errors!~!"

He was happy to take his leave as soon as he could.

So … now what?

He sits at the nearest burger place and mindlessly partakes in greasy fast-food, his mind far away and his heart in her hands. Somewhere.

* * *

 _She kicks playfully at the waves lapping at her toes, splashing him. Her eyes are like starlight, the moon casting a glow across her freckled face._

* * *

 _His lips are soft on her own as she lies back on the blanket, not even minding the chilly sea breeze as his warmth encompasses her._

 _She accidentally spills the apple cider. She giggles and apologizes, and he calls her an idiot before kissing her again._

* * *

They can't give up now.

They're partners. Lovers. Best friends.

To hell with everything else.

* * *

Ahiru goes to every cafe with a radio and stands at every electronic store with a working television in the window, looking for any sort of gossip channels or celebrity news.

Eventually, hope returns to her.

The _Fairytale_ tour is at a standstill, but fans are gathering at the _Grand Kinkan Hotel_ regardless, hoping to catch just a glimpse of one of the band members before they leave town entirely.

She doesn't waste a second, and goes to join the hoard of fans, using the last few dollars she has for the bus fair.

* * *

Fakir bursts into the nearest music store, ripping his sunglasses and hat right off as he does so. He points at an acoustic guitar, hanging on the wall. "I need that! Right now!"

He's easily recognized, and he promises the ecstatic store-owners all the publicity and advertisement they want, as long as they hurry the hell up.

* * *

The crowds grow into a frenzy as soon as Mytho and Rue, flanked by security, try to squeeze their way in through the entrance of the hotel after having a lunch date.

Ahiru gets down on all fours, crawling between people and ducking under legs, trying to get to the front of the hoard before Mytho and Rue make it inside. This is her only shot. Fakir could be in that building right now, waiting for her.

Finally, she shoots up to her feet, cups around her mouth, and hollers over the squeals and cheers. " _Fakir! Tell Fakir—please, tell Fakir that Ahiru_ _ **heard him**_!"

She repeats herself over and over, eyes swelling and burning with tears as Mytho and Rue grow further and further away.

* * *

Rue pauses in her step and glances over her shoulder.

* * *

Fakir isn't as well-versed on the guitar as he is on the bass. He's alright at best, but that's good enough.

Just as he expected, as soon as he sets himself up on one particular corner of the street with high foot traffic and begins to strum and sing, people stop and stare and scream and point and whip out their phones and cameras. Photos, videos, other recording devices …

No doubt he's all over the internet now.

 _Good_.

If everyone everywhere can see him, fine. That means she can, too.

This is a new song just for her, written on a fast-food napkin in his hurried handwriting, and crumpled up in his pocket. And he sings, accepting the public view. Just one more try. Just this last shot.

" _You can be you.  
"I'll be me.  
"Just take my hand and I'll,  
"I'll stay by your side  
"Forever."_

* * *

He stops mid-strum when his phone vibrates in his pocket. When Rue's name flashes across his screen, he feels disappointment washing over him. No doubt she's seen him somewhere on social media, and intends scold him for the publicity stunt without asking for their input first. He answers, still ignoring the phones and the people surrounding him.

" _Fakir—! Oh, Fakir—you're there, you really—you came to get me—!"_

The voice is quacklike and quivering, like she's crying.

He drops to his knees, and he's crying, too.

* * *

Ahiru and the rest of the band wait at the arrival gate, and as soon as he's in sight, she breaks into a sprint.

She makes him drop his new guitar, but with her arms around his neck and her lips peppering kisses across his jaw, how can he care?

* * *

"— _So his little performance on the street was for a specific person he had in mind~? Ohhhh, what juicy gossip, Katz!"_

" _Indeed, Goatette! Fakir Lohen, mysterious Ice King and songwriter of_ Fairytale, _has a new sweetheart~!"_

" _Oh how romantic!"_

" _He and his partner, an unknown young lady with red hair, were spotted two days ago attending the Kinkan Ballet Theater, and ohohoho~ they look quite cozy in these photos—"_

Pique and Lilie cling to their pillows and squeal with delight.

* * *

 _Shout-outs to the talented artists and writers who also participated in Fakiru Week! This was my first one, so thank you all so much for sharing your amazing work! :D It's been amazing!_


End file.
